Katy huffed. “This is ridiculous. If this murderer wants to come here, he’ll do it without having to kill a whore for each quarter he crosses.”
Her logic was solid, but an itch nagged at the back of my head.
“Maybe it’s a ritual,” Fanny added. “He has to kill in a certain pattern for who knows what reason.”
“Oh, enough of this spine-chilling talk.” Scoffing, Katy left the kitchen, staggering slightly. Lord, what had that valet done to her? Or maybe a bottle of whisky or two was missing from Violet’s sideboard.
Fanny snatched the newspaper from the table. “The next victim will be closer to us. Mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” I said to her retreating back.
A ritual. Shivers crawled up my back like spiders. The article said the woman’s name was unknown. She could have been anyone, not necessarily a prostitute. Although what would a respectable woman do at that hour, alone, in a dark alley? Chances were she was one of the poor Fallen Women, as the ex-prime minister Gladstone called us.
I had barely the time to finish a piece of toast when Violet strode inside, her logbook tucked under her arm.
“Asia, good to see you. I need to talk to you.”
My stomach tightened in a moment. Mr Blond might’ve complained about me to Violet, even though staying in my room and doing nothing had been his choice. Not that I believed Violet would throw me out, but a complaint was never good in my business. Rumours spread faster than butter on a hot slice of bread.
I fiddled with the cup. “Is it about the man of last night?”
“Indeed.” Her lips twitched.
“I bet he wants to try another girl.” The thought somehow scraped me raw.
“Quite the opposite.” Violet dropped the logbook on the kitchen table, avoiding a marmalade stain. “He booked you for the whole week.”
The sip of coffee I was about to swallow went astray, almost choking me. “You can’t be serious.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t joke on the amount of money he offered for the whole week. Whatever you did last night, you made an impression. After he left your room, his rude friend appeared again, then the two of them came straight to my office and arranged the whole thing. He wants you again and paid handsomely for the privilege.”
It was ridiculous. A shock of stillness ran through me. He hadn’t even touched me. “Did he say why?”
Violet’s brow shot up. “You saw the man. Did he look like the type who blabber about his own business?”
Not in the least.
“Be ready for tonight. Keep him happy.” She poured a cup of tea and went to leave.
“What about my other clients?” I asked.
“Rescheduled,” she tossed over her shoulder.
I didn’t like surprises. I preferred the predictability of the routine. What would Mr Blond do tonight? Bed me? Would he blame me for his lack of interest? And why did he want to see me again?
The disgust in the dark-haired man’s voice and manner had been so thick, I could’ve grown potatoes in it. Yet he’d come here again.
Shaking my head, I put the cup in the sink and went up to Charlotte’s room. The noise of quick footfalls sounded from behind her closed door. She was up and about then. After a quick knock, I pushed the door open. “Charlotte, it’s me.”
“Good morning,” she nearly snapped.
In her dressing gown, she was pacing and wringing her hands. The hem of the gown trailed behind her.
“What’s wrong?” I touched her shoulder, and she jolted.
“I need him. Now.” Her shrilly voice held hysteria.
“Who do you need? A doctor? Let me call the physician.” I went to rush to the door, but she took my hand.
Her gaze darted around. “Bertie, of course. I can’t stand this separation any longer.”
Not him again. “Separation? You didn’t see him for just one night.”
“But he didn’t say when I see him again.” She bit her fingernails hard enough to draw blood.
“Charlotte.” I took her trembling hands and led her to the bed. “Why don’t you sit here for a moment while I fetch you a cup of tea?”
“No.” She yanked her hands free. “I’m going to search for him.” With snappy gestures, she removed the dressing gown and put on a dark grey dress.
“How can you find him?” I tried to keep my voice steady when I wanted to shout at her to be reasonable. “You don’t even know his real name. We nicknamed him Bertie.”
Charlotte donned her burgundy coat, the one with a fur-trimmed hood I always drooled over, and wrapped a scarf around her slender neck. “I’m, I’m going to follow my instinct.” She marched towards the door.
“Wait!” Wasted breath. The door slammed in front of me, leaving me alone with my worry.
Four
THE COLD AIR HIT my cheeks while I promenaded along the gravel path in Hyde Park. The snow had melted, then frozen again, forming a thick layer of ice in the shadows. People said it was a particularly harsh winter, but I didn’t notice it. I’d spent enough winters in the streets, shivering and begging for food, that having a heated room didn’t sound harsh at all. The children’s house where I grew up was too crowded to allow any child older than twelve to stay. So at thirteen I was in the streets, learning that a quick hand and fast feet were the best tools to survive. Stealing and rummaging the Thames’ shore for pieces of coal had become my daily activities.
Despite the chill, ladies and gentlemen with flocks of romping children crammed the park. Snowballs were thrown around, and on the frozen Serpentine, young ladies giggled while trying to ice skating.
No one paid me the slightest bit of attention, and I loved it. Men didn’t stare at me with lust darkening their eyes, and women didn’t sneer, offended by my presence. With my decent, high-necked brown gown, a cloak, and a velvet hat, I could pass for a respectable woman just enjoying a walk on the snow; unchaperoned, yes, but still respectable. I wasn’t a whore, and I wasn’t even Asia, the scrawny orphan found at a children’s house.
I was just me. A woman who wished to be respected.
Moments like this were the hardest. They showed me a possible life that was close to my reach, but no matter how much I tried to grasp it, it slid away from me. It was easy to pretend no other life was possible when I stayed within the perfumed walls of De Luna House. But outside, among normal people, real life slapped me and taunted me with what I could never have. A husband, a family, growing old in a house full of love.
Even my dream to put aside enough money to retire would turn into ash if diseases or a crazy client killed me. In the worst case, I’d simply die after years spent on my back and be yet another little whore dead in London. No one would mourn me.
A tear trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it, annoyed with myself.
I had friends, and they were precious.
I spun away from the happy families playing with the snow and stifled a gasp.
Yards from me, Mr Blond was hurrying along the path, seemingly oblivious of the cold and the icy ground. His strides were confident, and his feet quick. His large frame was easy to spot and forgetting those emerald eyes was impossible. He was heading towards the exit on Knightsbridge, as if the devil was at his heels. Feminine heads turned his way when he strode past the ladies.
I did what every sensible woman would do. I followed him.
Keeping up with his long strides was like a training session with Felicity. By the time we’d reached South Kensington Road, my muscles were burning, and my breath came out in quick puffs. At least I wasn’t cold.
He stopped at a crossing, and I skidded to a halt behind one of those poor linden trees bordering the road. With its naked branches drooping and the snow covering the twigs, the tree cut a rather sad figure.
Mr Blond gazed around, hands shoved in his pockets. His breaths formed steamy clouds around his mouth. Shaking his head, he spun and turned the corner. People on the
pavement stepped aside to let him pass as he soldiered through children eating roasted chestnuts and men drinking mulled wine. I sped up but slowed down when he entered a shop.
A cold breeze lifted, and the hairs behind my nape prickled. In a corner, a shadow flickered and vanished a moment later, like a trick played by the sunlight. Just like the strange bird that morning.
Dread crawled up my neck for no apparent reason. The sensation of being watched caused goose-bumps to grow on my skin. Yet, no one was staring at me. I couldn’t even blame the lack of sleep for my silly fear. I’d slept eight full hours thanks to Mr Blond.
Shivering, I sauntered towards the shop, too curious to drop the chase now. The shop’s sign swung back and forth, its hinges screeching in the street.
Burges & Caltrop Antiquarians.
The brass letters shone in the grey morning, as if to defy the winter’s chill. I peeked inside and spotted wardrobes, wooden chests, and shelves filled with vases, but no tall and broad blond man.
Perhaps Mr Blond had realised I was tailing him and exited from the shop’s back door. I loitered, pretending to watch the window when a glimmer of gold caught my eye. Mr Blond stood at the end of the shop in all his threatening glory.
He was chatting with a short man with glasses who kept wiping his bald head with a handkerchief while shifting his weight. Yes, Mr Blond could be that intimidating. A wave of sympathy for the little man surged. I should go, but I was too curious to . . . to . . . I didn’t know. I just wanted to enter the damn shop and catch a word or two from Mr Blond. He could be anyone, a criminal, a mob boss, or the very killer who was murdering whores.
I had every right to know more about him.
I gingerly pushed the door open and cursed under my breath when a bell jingled.
The row of wardrobes hid me from his view, though. If I sneaked up the aisle on the left, I could be close enough to listen what he was saying, and maybe I could pretend to bump into him to ask him why he wanted to see me again.
A few customers strolled around, selecting vases and china plates from the shelves. The section with rare books momentarily distracted me. Neat rows of leather-bound volumes crammed the shelves. The golden letters of the titles glittered like tiny stars in the dull shop. No, I wouldn’t stop to search them. I had a mission, and I was close enough to Mr Blond that his deep rumble reached me. Not that I could understand what he was saying. The words were a muffled jumble.
I crept onwards when the smell of paper and old leather hit my nostrils, and like a sailor enthralled by a siren’s song, I couldn’t ignore the books anymore.
A copy of Jane Eyre ensnared me. I glided towards the shelf and with eager fingers pulled the book out. It was a first edition, in excellent conditions. The binding didn’t have any crease, and the pages still smelled of freshly printed paper. Whoever had it hadn’t opened it or had paid extra care.
The price caused my heart to sink. I couldn’t afford to spend five quid on a book. Still, I skimmed the pages and imagined slouching in my bed with a hot cup of cocoa while reading it.
“Are you going to buy the book, miss?” A sensual male voice intruded.
“Alas, the price is too high for—” I turned towards the man and shut up.
Mr Blond was a couple of feet from me, leaning against the shelves and frowning. With his arms folded across his chest, his muscles bulged and strained his already tight jacket. The rich dark fabric seemed on the point to rip.
Swallowing and pressing the book against my chest like a shield, I smiled. “What a coincidence. Fancy that.”
“Coincidence?” His brow creased further, and I inched back. It was amazing how the simple gesture could be so frightening. “You were following me.”
Damn. Lie. Lie. Lie. I stuck out my chin. “Believe it or not, but I have better things to do than tailing you.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Miss Asia.”
Something swirled in those emerald pools. It was as if his eyes hadn’t decided what colour they preferred and shifted from emerald to a dark grey.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” he said.
Considering I was going to see him tonight, maybe telling the truth was the best course of action, just in case he decided to interrogate me while we were locked in my room. “Fine. I followed you. Shortly. I was curious.”
“About what?”
You. “About why you were in such a hurry.”
He worked his jaw, his gaze never leaving mine. “You shouldn’t follow men you don’t know, especially when you are alone.”
“I’m always alone.” Bitterness slipped in my voice, more than I meant.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and the frown smoothed. “London isn’t a place for an unchaperoned woman to wander.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. Besides, I lived in the streets for years, and it’s day. I’m not wandering alone in a dark alley at night.”
“You’d be surprised to know what lurks in the shadow even during the day.” His tone sounded so serious that the laugh bubbling inside of me died a swift death.
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
“May I help you, Miss?” The short man trotted towards us, breaking the staring spell between Mr Blond and me. “Do you wish to buy that book?”
I unclenched my fingers from Jane Eyre. “Well, I was thinking—”
“You! Give me that!” Gone was the short man’s kind tone. He snatched the book from my hand and glowered. “Get out of my shop. I don’t want your lot here.”
There was enough venom in his voice to kill an elephant.
“What’s the matter?” Mr Blond asked, facing the man and uncoiling his massive body.
The man used his handkerchief to wipe the cover of the book where I’d touched it. “I know her lot. I saw her once in a pleasure house when I had to deliver a set of chairs. She’s one of them harlots. I don’t want her filthy presence here in this respectable shop.”
It shouldn’t have hurt. I’d heard versions of this statement enough times I should’ve grown a thick skin against it, but a pang of shame sliced through me.
Customers turned towards us. Every gaze was on me, and mutters spread in the shop.
“Apologise to the lady.” Mr Blond’s icy tone sent a chill down my back. As he straightened, he gained a few more inches of menace.
“She isn’t a lady.” The man took a step back. It was his turn to clench Jane Eyre for dear life. “I . . . This is my shop. I decide who can enter.”
Well, the man was braver than I thought, but when Mr Blond inched closer, the man staggered farther back. Silence dropped in the shop.
“Apologise,” Mr Blond repeated.
“Don’t.” I put a hand on his arm, feeling the soft, smooth fabric of his jacket and the hard muscles underneath. “I don’t want a scene. I’ll leave.”
A tendon in his neck pulsated, but he offered me his arm. “I’ll escort you out.”
I was about to say it wasn’t necessary, but in his actual edgy mood, he might not take it well, and I didn’t want to start a new argument. Obediently, I wrapped my arm around his and exited the shop like a proper lady escorted by her husband. As if.
The moment we stepped outside, he strode off at his fast pace. His muscles contracted under my arms, and warmth radiated from his body.
“You should’ve let me tell him a word,” he said, advancing along the ice-covered pavement.
“It looked like you wanted to talk to him with your fists.”
“I wasn’t going to hit him, but I couldn’t stay silent,” he said in an annoyed tone. “He insulted you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How can you say that?” he roared.
I stopped, both because I couldn’t keep up with his pace on the slippery ground and because his indignation was crushing my chest. I wasn’t sure why, but the angrier he became, the more fiercely shame burn
ed inside me.
“It’s sweet and so very knightly of you to defend my honour. But you see, there’s no honour to defend. I’m afraid your outrage is misplaced.” I disentangled my arm from his and turned towards the park, staring at the muddy pavement.
A hard ball of emotions almost choked me. It was bad enough to be a whore, but to be publicly scolded in front of him caused tears to well in my eyes. I staggered towards the park, avoiding the passers-by’s gazes. I couldn’t even enjoy a promenade in the streets without being insulted.
Iron fingers closed around my arm before I could cross the road and reach the park. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him holding me. His intense scent filled my lungs and slowed my erratic heartbeat. My back brushed his chest, and I waited for him to say something. He just held my arm though, his fingers not relaxing. Silence stretched, thicker than the layer of snow on the cobbles.
“Let me go,” I half-whispered, half-hissed.
He loosened his grip but didn’t release me.
Anger soured my mouth. “Do you have something to tell me? Because I’d rather go back to the house now than stay here to freeze.”
Slowly, his fingers released me, trailing over my arm. Even through the fabric of my coat, his touch left a path of fire on my skin.
I faced him, not sure about what I was going to say. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to be safe.” He stood inches from me, so close I could spot the golden specks in his irises.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. His answer didn’t make any sense.
He searched around, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m always careful.”
After another glance around, as if he was worried to be followed, he bowed. “See you tonight.”
Before I could say anything, he went away, disappearing through the crowd and leaving me puzzled.
~ * * ~
BY THE TIME I arrived at De Luna House, I was a wobbly mess of confusion and anger, and the sun had set. But I’d lie if I didn’t mention that a generous dose of desire wasn’t lurking inside me. Mr Blond’s touch still burned on my arm, and visions of his tempting lips flashed across my mind.
The Royal Occult Bureau Page 4